Much awaited, somehow disconcerting, warm Spring
knocks wild on our doors. We’ve lived long months
cocooned in rooms, hiding from chill white some might
find delightful to ski on but frightful to hold,
deathly against our skin; therefore we wear protection.
On hurried forays wrapped in wool or ersatz fleece,
we hear river ice snapping like rifle shots.
The warming mud smells strangely sweet,
prefacing green odors soon to come.
Grown used to winter numbness, we’re uneasy.
If such things change so all around then what of us?
Our clothing melts like snow banks under sun,
blanketing grown thinner, showing form,
brown shades of earth beneath, pulsation,
movement, growth, the vitals of creation.
Unlike that black rich soil, we Yankees cling
to frigid scraps of fabric, a decent modicum
not needed by our bodies, but the social peace,
comforted by time-honored convention,
protected from unseemly illumination.
Doomed, futile, vain efforts. Each of us
is made of earth despite all our pretensions.
As though drawn, heads turn to catch
the flight of vibrant birdsong; internal rhythms
quicken as we feel the fragrant breath
of wind warm over and around us,
soaking in through lungs and skin until
our flesh is saturated to the very marrow
of our bones. Inevitably, regardless of what’s worn,
our singing souls dance naked in the primal light.
~ Wry Welwood
late twentieth century,
revised 2023
Happy Equinox!
Beautiful!!! 💜